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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24246301">eternity for ourselves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack'>goldbooksblack</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the one that you love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-CHOG, Redemption, not actually Grace/James</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:48:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24246301</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But had Richard not been betrayed by his own men? Had he not been torn down by a youth from Wales with a bastard claim to the throne? Had he not died bogged down in the mud, helmet lost, blow after blow landing against his exposed skin?</i>
</p><p>Grace Blackthorn has second thoughts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Grace Blackthorn/Christopher Lightwood, Grace Blackthorn/James Herondale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the one that you love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eternity for ourselves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story can be read without reading <i>the one that you love</i>, but I recommend reading it before diving into this one. </p><p>Lyrics to Edith Piaf's Hymne à l'amour can be found <a href="https://lyricstranslate.com/en/l039hymne-l039amour-hymn-love.html">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Le ciel bleu sur nous peut s’effondrer</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Et la terre peut bien s'écrouler,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peu m’importe si tu m’aimes,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Je me fous du monde entier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It would be easier, Grace thinks, if she hated James. If he withheld money from her, or took a hand to her, or forced her. It would be easier to keep up this charade, paste on a smile to hide the simmering resentment underneath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But James has never withheld money from her, or taken a hand to her, or forced her, and it is a betrayal of whatever shred of morality she has left to consider such possibilities.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes she will look down on her ring finger and see the band shining there and then touch her heart instinctively. Grace had not wanted to be marked, and though their wedding had been a strange affair without it, James had complied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t enjoy the runes,” he’d said softly, taking her hand in his. Love—or the closest thing to it—had shone in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d nodded and let him believe the excuse. Only she knows the truth: that marking herself would have meant giving up the last sliver of humanity she clung and clings onto. The guilt that keeps her alive. The knowledge that somewhere out in the cold London night, there is a woman who wanders the streets with a faded marriage rune over her heart and the echo of false promises in her ears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tant que l’amour inondera mes matins,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tant que mon corps frémira sous tes mains,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peu m’importent les problèmes,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mon amour puisque tu m’aimes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christopher rocks gently side to side with the motions of the carriage, a vial of demon blood clutched in his hand. London had been silent for months—that is, if one ignores the attack just a few minutes ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James had pushed his wife and Christopher into the carriage, his shirt still soaked with Matthew’s scarlet blood. “Go back to the Institute. Tell them what’s happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The ichor, James—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here.” A vial of the black liquid had been thrust into his hand, Cordelia’s dark eyes luminous behind it. And so he had sunk back against the cushioned seat, fiddling with and trying not to drop the glassware. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher, contrary to most perceptions, is not blind to the machinations of others. Least of all his friends. He cares for them deeply—most of them are related to him by blood, after all—but there has always been a glass wall between the others and himself. He cares for them, and they care for him; yet that care will never pull Christopher down from the clouds of invention or through the glass wall to join the others. Matthew, James, Thomas, and Anna are all involved in entirely worldly affairs and he is not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or he had not been. Until recently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He risks a glance at the young woman sitting opposite him. Like every other person, he had been struck by the iciness that coated her every word, every action. And like any other person, he had wondered how on earth James Herondale, of all people, had fallen in love with someone as devoid of emotion as he was full of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, there is the recurring matter of Christopher being trapped in a carriage with Grace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Blackthorn—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Herondale,” Grace corrects, her voice lilting and soft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Herondale, do you mind holding the ichor for me? I believe a buckle on my shoe has come undone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you have buckles on your shoes, Mr. Lightwood.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowns, struggling a little as he contorts his body to verify Grace’s words. “Ah. It appears so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a problem with your shoes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is a mysterious dampness, and now that it cannot be explained away by a loose buckle . . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would be happy to hold the ichor for you, Mr. Lightwood.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without the test tube to occupy his other hand, Christopher still has to throw his coattails back to peer at his foot. “Ah,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I seem to have . . . stepped in a puddle of demon blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher expects Grace to move to the other side of the seat in response. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had hastily moved away from him in disgust, and he is certain that it wouldn’t be the last. Raziel knows Rosamund Wentworth or Catherine Townsend would have taken any chance to stick the tube of ichor back in his face and launch themselves out of the carriage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grace does neither. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she camly affixes him with a glance. The thought strikes him out of nowhere that her eyes are very gray. Very gray. “How did the blood manage to travel through the sole of your shoe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I accidentally left it sitting in a pool of ichor a few weeks ago. For another experiment. I forgot about it when I put it on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same sort of ichor as this?” Grace holds the test tube up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. It was a Ravener demon’s blood, I believe.” Christopher scratches his head. “Or was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the demon who just attacked us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A Behemoth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage jolts suddenly, and the vial slips from Grace’s hold. Christopher lunges for it, his whole body taut until the cool glass kisses the pads of his fingers once more and drops into his hand. He lifts his head to look at Grace. Her nose is just inches away from him, her hands bent towards the vial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher clears his throat, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “Right. Yes, um, it’s a good thing this vial didn’t smash onto the floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I surmised that from your anecdote with your shoes.” A light dryness underscores Grace’s words. It is the most emotion he has ever heard from her. “Mr. Lightwood, the last time we rode together, you spoke of an experiment with bacterial cultures. Whatever became of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You remembered?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace peeks out the window before answering. “It is not often that a gentleman discusses such things with a lady.” The thinnest sneer covers her words. Christopher chooses to ignore it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is even rarer that a lady remembers such incidents. Of science.” Her gray eyes shutter. He quickly moves on. “They are most odd organisms, bacteria. I had wondered if treating them with ichor would harm their chances of reproduction. If it did not, I hoped that perhaps it would indicate that certain types of bacteria would be advantageous to use in battle. Perhaps as a coating for certain types of weapons, so as to render wounds even more fatal to the demon.” He frowns. “But, as I discovered, the ichor promptly dissolved the bacteria, so—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re here,” Grace interrupts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher blinks. The carriage seems to have rolled to a stop. “Ah.” He and Grace look at each other in silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Grace has inhaled too much ichor fumes and has been rendered paralyzed. Oh, dear Raziel, where would he be in that scenario? Or perhaps she had—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” He reaches for the latch, nearly tumbling out of the carriage in his haste. Christopher holds out a hand for her. “I apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s quite all right,” Grace murmurs. Her pale hand is soft in his, the weight of it barely there. “Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Lightwood.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>J’irais décrocher la lune,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>J’irais voler la fortune,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si tu me demandais.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes she can remember her parents. The scent of her mother’s perfume. The low timbre of her father’s voice as he laughed. But when she reaches out to grasp the memories, they disappear like puffs of smoke from a cigar. So Grace contents herself with the memories she does have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mama’s green eyes. Jesse standing in the moonlight. The softness of her bed in Idris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stench of dark magic that follows Mama everywhere she goes. The way Mama’s face shrivels up right before her hand comes down on Grace. The love that Mama gives her, brandished like a mace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace shudders awake in the middle of the night when the memories begin to crash down like waves. She bites on her fist to keep from shaking or disturbing James. Moonlight shines through a crack in the curtains, illuminating her husband’s calm visage. And the bracelet encircling his elegant wrist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loyaulté me lie. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But had Richard not been betrayed by his own men? Had he not been torn down by a youth from Wales with a bastard claim to the throne? Had he not died bogged down in the mud, helmet lost, blow after blow landing against his exposed skin? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace returns to bed, but she does not sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Je renierais ma patrie,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Je renierais mes amis,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si tu me le demandais.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By the angel, Christopher!” Thomas waves away smoke as he stares down at his cousin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t scold him, Tom,” Matthew leans his slender frame on a dresser. Besides being out of place in the Institute’s laboratory, it is also missing all of its drawers. “Christopher isn’t himself when he hasn’t exploded anything in more than a week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very funny,” Christopher stamps out a piece of flaming paper beneath his shoe. (He had already checked for holes.) “But you should know that this prototype has been the most promising so far—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness.” Matthew blinks. “That was the most promising one? The one that very nearly killed us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I manage to solve the issue of the flame retardant—” Christopher shakes ash out of his hair. “Thomas. Tom, are you free this afternoon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I . . . wait.” Thomas’s eyebrows draw together. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No reason.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” His cousin protests. “Absolutely not!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You helped me create the Khora antidote,” Christopher wheedles. His voice sounds more whiny than it does saccharine. There is a reason, he supposes, that Matthew is the best at getting what he wants. “This will be the same—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No.” Thomas shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighs. He turns to Matthew, whose hands are already up in surrender. “I have plans with Anna, and if I don’t show up, I will have hell to pay. Perhaps you could ask one of the Institute staff? Bridget is probably willing to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She hates me,” Christopher says sadly. “I accidentally set her whole stock of potatoes on fire once.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Potatoes? I thought it was carrots.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard it was celery.” Thomas frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter what type of vegetable it was!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or how many different types of vegetables you have clearly destroyed,” Matthew mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The point is, Bridget would never help me.” Christopher leans his forearms on the workbench. “There must be someone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher Lightwood,” Matthew begins in a chastising, suffering tone—as if he is Henry Irving holding Yorick’s skull. “My dearest, oldest friend. Surely it does not come as a shock to you that you are the only person in London who has any shred of scientific interest—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know who can help me!” Christopher interrupted triumphantly. “Grace Bla—Herondale. Grace Herondale!” Matthew and Thomas stare at him. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought the explosions were bad,” Matthew says. “But I should have been warier of the ash. It’s gone to his brain, hasn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher,” Thomas says gently. “Why Grace?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She has interest in my experiments. She and I had a conversation about ichor on the carriage ride back to the Institute—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher, she’s a siren.” After a thoughtful pause, Matthew adds, “And not one of the ones in myth who are tragic and whom you cannot help feeling sorry for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Chris,” Thomas coughs. “Have you forgotten about the confusing circumstances of her marriage to James? How James does not seem entirely aware of the world when he is near her? How her mother is Tatiana Blackthorn?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the more reason to keep her out of trouble.” Christopher shrugs. “She can hardly wreak havoc from down here, can she?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew and Thomas share a weighted look. “We don’t want you to be harmed, Christopher.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hardly think Grace will develop any designs on me.” He says dryly, turning back to the still-flaming remains of his experiment. “Will you send for her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace arrives a quarter after one, dressed in a deep emerald gown and a pair of gold earrings. “Mr. Lightwood? Is there something I can help you with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher blinks at her for a few moments before he remembers why she is there. “I—yes! Yes, come in. Take a pair of goggles and an apron, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Lightwood. Surely you do not expect me to—aid you in your efforts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Thomas and Matthew not tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid they communicated to me nothing except that you had requested my presence here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Well.” An overly familiar feeling of shyness overtakes him. “You should probably still put on the goggles and apron. For safety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Lightwood.” Grace looks at him, exasperation simmering in her eyes. “I cannot stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you made appointments elsewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—” It is the first time he has ever seen the pristine Grace Herondale off-kilter. “Yes. Yes, Mr. Lightwood, I have obligations elsewhere!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where? With whom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips in thought. “Well, I’m sure that a simple message to whoever is waiting for you would solve the issue.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Lightwood!” Both their voices have slipped into petulance. It feels a little like when he had been eight and had accidentally melted all of Anna’s watches in the process of trying to make her a birthday gift. Except now he is much older and Anna is not Anna but Grace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless the reason for avoiding me is not that you have a conflict but that you fundamentally dislike me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Color blooms high on Grace’s cheeks. For his part, Christopher cannot remember a time when he has ever spoken to someone like this, much less a lady. He has always been the odd one out among his friends—even Thomas, with all of his stolid strength, understands people far more than Christopher could ever dream of. He laces his fingers together behind his back and opens his mouth to apologize when Grace speaks first. “Very well. I shall stay to help.” Christopher watches—in half-stunned silence—as Grace trades her lace gloves for black lab ones. He is so mesmerized by the sudden change in action that she startles him by saying, “Is there something particularly interesting about me that you wish to gawk at, Mr. Lightwood?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No—no,” he says hurriedly. “And, please. Call me Christopher.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On peut bien rire de moi,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Je ferais n’importe quoi</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si tu me le demandais.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” James begins, the carriage rocking steadily around them. “I heard from Matthew that you are working with Christopher? In the laboratory?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace tries not to twist her hands together. Even sitting next to James in the cramped carriage is too much. Let alone sleeping next to him every night. But she pastes on a smile, half shy and half concerned. “Yes. He asked for my assistance. I hope . . . I hope that it’s all right with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.” James smiles down at her, and her already-fractured heart chips a little more. “I’m glad you’re spending time with them. Christopher and Thomas and Matthew . . . I knew you would like them.” He drops a kiss on the top of her head. She tries to lean into it instead of shuddering away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has become much harder, this charade. As Mama had become more and more careless with her words around Grace. As Grace had begun to piece together exactly what may happen to her husband. As it had become clearer and clearer that Jesse may never return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage rolls to a stop, and like clockwork, her pulse skyrockets. James squeezes her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to enter with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace takes a slow breath. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns. “But Grace, now that your mother is gone—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” James arches an eyebrow in concern. “I mean, no.” Grace folds her hands neatly in her lap. “The house, I . . . I fear for you,” she widens her eyes innocently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace, if anything, I am more afraid for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “Perhaps at a later date, James.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” James leaps down and helps her out of the carriage. “Be safe, Grace.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Lightwood manor in Chiswick is still as ragged as a London beggar. Grace holds her breath as she enters. The house’s darkness wraps itself around her like a heavy winter blanket, trapping her within its embrace and not letting go. The curtains are drawn, just as they have been for the past twenty-four years. The smell of old blood, musty and metallic, droops in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace resists the urge to turn back and run after James’s carriage. Everything inside her, every unhoned Shadowhunter instinct, is telling her to </span>
  <em>
    <span>get out.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Since she has gone to live at the Institute—and then at the townhouse—she has been spoiled with fresh air. Freedom. The lack of a watchful eye flooded with vengeance. “Tatiana is in the Adamant Citadel,” Tessa had told her, sympathy and suspicion warring in her eyes. “You will never have to come into contact with her ever again, if that is what you wish.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace had nodded. She knew better than to confirm Tessa’s statement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because she could not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana is gone, but she isn’t. Grace can feel her mother’s forceful anger in every dust particle swirling in the air. Sometimes she will feel a breath on the back of her neck and whirl around in fear, only to realize that she had left the window open. Mama haunts her more than Jesse ever could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the darkness surrounding her . . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace hadn’t told James why she had wanted to return to Chiswick. He had not asked, either, utterly under her influence. Some sinister feeling had crept up on her this morning, a wordless presence that urged her to go home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesse?” She whispers, stepping further into the drawing room. “Jesse, are you there?” There is no response. Grace makes her way upstairs; every step makes her heart lurch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesse’s body is still perfectly preserved in his coffin. Grace flinches at the sight of him. It had always seemed like an unattainable dream, Mama’s plan to bring him back. And yet, Grace had never dreamt that it could spiral into the present situation. She tucks her hands behind her back, instinctively hiding her wedding ring. “Hello, Jesse.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not respond. Grace drags a crumbling chair from the wall and perches carefully on it. “I miss you, Jesse,” she whispers. “I feel so lost now without you, and without Mama . . .” She takes a breath. “I married him. I married James. And he . . . he still has it on. The bracelet. And I . . .” Scalding tears burn her eyes; she blinks them back. “I love you,” Grace says brokenly. “I love you. And I love Mama. I know what she’s done—or I think I know what she’s done. But I still love her. I cannot blame her for making the decisions that she did, not when she did it for you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But now, when I look at James’s or Mrs. Herondale’s or Mr. Herondale’s or—” her lips fuse together, as if unwilling to let her utter the one name that she is thinking. The person who has suffered the most from her marriage. “When I look at their faces, all I can think about is what I might be bringing down on them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love Mama,” Grace repeats. “But I—I cannot help but think of how her objectives have changed over time. At first, it was only to bring you back. And then as she made more and more promises, it was as though . . . as though she became consumed with the process. As if she had become drunk on power . . . as if bringing you back wasn’t enough.” She closes her eyes and feels a hot tear curve down her cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Grace Herondale.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace jumps, and her hands instantly gravitate towards her hair. Her fingers close around a harpin. “Who’s there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low chuckle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You cannot see me, but I see you.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A friend of your mother’s.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her blood chills. She had grown used to the demons that would parade through their house, but she had never grown used to interacting with them. “Mama isn’t here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know. I came to speak to you, Mrs. Herondale.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“W—why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why, to carry on our plans, of course.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice sounds amused. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Surely you cannot think that simply because your mother is in the Adamant Citadel, the favors she owes me have been forgiven?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Grace says. Her voice sounds awfully small. “Of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Good. And congratulations on your marriage, Grace. A most advantageous one.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice is like molten chocolate, rich and smooth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th—thank you.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Does the Herondale boy still wear the charm?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Excellent,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> the voice purrs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Arrange a meeting with your mother.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But the Adamant Citadel—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“All female Shadowhunters in good standing with the Clave are welcome inside the Citadel. It should not be difficult to gain entry.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I—” The sound stops in her throat, and panic overtakes her. “I—” All that comes out is a horrible choking sound. The demon is gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si un jour la vie t’arrache à moi,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si tu meurs que tu sois loin de moi,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peu m’importe si tu m’aimes</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Christopher says sadly. “That was Experiment Five-Hundred-and Forty-One.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Grace stare at the remains of Experiment Five-Hundred-and-Forty-One. Or, rather, they stare at the remains of the drawerless dresser that had been consumed by the fires of Experiment Five-Hundred-and-Forty-One. It creates a rather pleasant crackling sound, the burning dresser, thinks Christopher. The crackling stops abruptly as Grace pours a bucket of water on the fire, extinguishing it with a sizzle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher shakes his head. “I don’t understand. We did everything perfectly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps we need a different flame retardant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve already tried every flame retardant known to man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then perhaps sending messages via fire isn’t the proper way to solve your problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! I know it is, I—” Christopher stops at the sight of Grace folding her arms expectantly. “All right. All right. I see your point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you insist on pursuing fire, then you must look for a different flame retardant. There is no way around this.” Grace trades her apron for a pan and a brush. “Will you clean up the bench? I will sweep up the . . . dresser ashes.” Christopher nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as they work. It has been months since Grace first stepped into the laboratory. Since then, she has shown up nearly every day to assist him. At first, it had been silently measuring out lab materials and setting up experiments. But after he had nearly blown himself up (again), Grace had finally said something. “If you let the paper soak in the flame retardant overnight, won’t it strengthen it? And make it less susceptible to . . . combustion?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher had blinked. “Oh. Yes. Yes! Yes, that’s quite right!” He had scrambled to do precisely what she had suggested, taking a piece of heavy parchment paper and dipping it into a pan of flame retardant. “Mrs. Herondale, this is quite revolutionary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing.” Was that a blush? On Grace Herondale’s cheeks? “You would have come to the same realization sooner or later.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I would have, actually.” Christopher had grinned at her, ecstatic over a new breakthrough in the project that he had been working on for the better part of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since then, Grace has freely voiced her opinions on Christopher’s experiments. He has come to learn that she has an active mind, and a fine sense for science—though she denies it. It is a shame, he thinks, that a mind like that had wasted away for eight years behind dilapidated walls and under the mercy of a woman who— as Matthew once put it—was “crazier than a Bedlamite roaming the streets of London in a torn straitjacket, with knives in their hands.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace’s silvery-blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders as she bends to dump the ashes into the bin. She is slender, almost similar to Lucie in height. Lucie’s vibrant blue eyes, however, lack the coolness of Grace’s gray ones. He has never seen anyone have eyes that exact shade of gray, save Grace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is very beautiful. Grace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aunt Tessa is beautiful, as is his mother and Aunt Sophie and Anna and Lucie and Cordelia. But Christopher has never actively needed to think about their beauty. Not like now, when his mind pesters him, over and over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace is beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher.” And then she is very close to him, reaching past his arm for something on the workbench, holding a bucket of water in her hand. “You missed that paper pile. It’s still on fire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Grace’s skirt brushes against his hand as she pours water on the small flame. Liquid sloshes across the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s eyes widen as he sees a small river curving rapidly toward his notes. He lunges for them, knocking against Grace in the process. His sleeve soaks with water as he piles the papers into a neat pile and wipes the puddle up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher opens his mouth to breathe a sigh of relief when he realizes that he is leaning heavily against Grace. Grace, who is backed up against the workbench. Grace, whose enigmatic gray eyes are mere inches away from his, looking up at him with wide shock. He is acutely aware of the warmth that rolls off of her, hotter than the flames and much, much more dangerous. Christopher’s gaze slants down to her lips, the perfect little dip in her top lip, right below her nose—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the taste of her mouth is divine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has never touched a lady like this, much less kiss one. Grace is so soft, so warm under his hands. Her hip fits perfectly into his hand; the back of her neck, into the other. Christopher has only ever heard about kissing from Matthew and the occasional book. But for all of Matthew’s raunchy stories and for all of the elaborate literary metaphors, no one has ever been able to capture what kissing Grace is like. He runs his tongue over the outline of her open lips, and he might have imagined it, her breathy groan—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Lightwood!” Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he does not imagine. Grace pushes him back, breathing hard. Sections of her hair have come out of its updo. Water glitters between some strands, clumping them together. Faintly, Christopher realizes that he had leaned her down so far that her back had been flat with the still-damp workbench; her dress is surely ruined by now. “Mr. Lightwood, what are—what are you doing?” Grace’s gray eyes are impossibly wide with horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Lightwood, I am married!” Though her lips are moving, she seems caught in the same frozen shock that he is. “This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> improper, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace, please, I did not mean for this to happen—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face contorts into panic and horror, and in the back of his mind, Christopher realizes just how poorly a word “improper” is for the situation. Grace is a married woman. James is one of his best friends and more than that, his cousin. The red patches on her cheeks, the wet hair and soaked dress—anyone could deduce what they had been doing. Or the nature of what they had been doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must go.” Grace’s voice is flat. Christopher’s heart sinks. She has never been cold with him. She has been disinterested, scathing, humorous, kind—but never cold. Coldness had always seemed a designation for others. Never him. “Goodbye, Mr. Lightwood.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace, I won’t tell anyone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace’s left hand clenches and unclenches. “It’s Mrs. Herondale.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Car moi je mourrai aussi.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A bead of sweat drips off her forehead as Grace considers the Adamant Citadel. Lava bubbles down, down below in the chasm, sluggishly rolling and rolling around the fortress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand shakes as she carefully draws the point of her knife through the palm of her hand. Grace grits her teeth as pain shoots through her arm. A drop of blood bubbles and beads on the surface of her skin before dripping down into the abyss. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ignis aurum probat,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blinding blue flash illuminates the plain and Grace hears a slow creaking as the drawbridge lowers. The gleaming towers of the Citadel rise at the end of the dark path, and she takes the first step toward her mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had not been a simple task, gaining entry to the Citadel. Or even asking for permission to visit. Grace is still a neophyte in the eyes of the Clave, not to mention in the eyes of the London Institute. “Grace, are you sure you want to visit Tatiana?” Her father-in-law had asked, eyebrows knit together. “The Consul believes that your mother is still trying to acclimate to being an Iron Sister. Perhaps it would be a better idea for you to wait a little longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she had insisted, and here she is. Being an obedient, dutiful daughter. Anger simmers up inside her from an unknown place. Why is she here? Why is she still loyal to Tatiana? The whole purpose of scheming to marry Charles and then marrying James had been to rid herself of Mama. Now she is crawling back to her, ball in mouth, no better than a dog. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The favors she owes me have not been forgiven.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Instinctively, Grace looks down at her left hand. Her wedding ring shines faintly. A familiar sense of nausea washes over her at the sight of it. Another reason why she wants to turn around and run far, far away from her mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are my weapon,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mama had told her one night when the crazed gleam in her eye was stronger than usual. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You are better than any blade.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace had been eight years old when Mama—her real Mama, the Mama whose smile she carries in her heart—and Papa had gone out one morning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We will be right back, poppet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>said Mama. Papa had planted a kiss on her silver hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had never returned to their small, ivy-ambushed house in Leeds; instead, a stout man with a dark mustache had arrived at the door. Grace had been left upstairs by her nanny while she went to answer the door, but that was no matter. She was more than happy to play with her little chipped porcelain doll—little Mary Elizabeth with her frayed red ribbon and faded ballgown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Elizabeth had put on her ragged blue bonnet and was about to go out for a morning stroll—like Mama and Papa—when the nanny’s shriek interrupted her plans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What had happened immediately after is lost to Grace’s memory. She does not remember whether the Inquisitor immediately took her away or whether her nanny packed her a portmanteau first or whether the candles had even been extinguished before they left. All she remembers is trailing behind Maurice Bridgestock, arms wrapped around Mary Elizabeth. If it had been any other day, she would have grasped Mama’s hand in her right hand and Papa’s hand in her left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But from that day forward, it would never be “any other day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The train to Idris had been loud and crowded, and other loud men had crowded into the car with Grace and the Inquisitor. They wore dark clothes and threw around long, grown-up terms that she didn’t understand. But as the hours dragged on and as the sky darkened and trees rushed past the train, something became very clear: Mama and Papa were gone, and they were not coming back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace turned toward the window, away from the other Shadowhunters. She had not wanted them to see the tears slip off her face and into Mary Elizabeth’s dark hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Council Hall had been just as terrifying as the train. The Inquisitor had directed her to sit on a small stool in the center of the room. Grace had felt so tiny, even tinier than she knew she was. Only the weight of Mary Elizabeth against her chest had offered her any comfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At eight years old, Grace did not have the vocabulary to explain what she had been witnessing. Only now did she know what had been happening to her. She had been auctioned off. No one wanted her. She saw it on the faces of the men and women who sat in the rows against the wall, stern-faced and bored. Grace shrunk back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will take her.” A sharp voice echoed through the chamber, and a unified shuffling sound followed as everyone turned to look at the individual sitting in the very back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tatiana.” Consul Fairchild had frowned. “Are you certain tha—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman—Tatiana—stood. She wore a pink dress, soiled by large stains on the skirt. Grace could not quite see the features of her face, but she could discern hard green eyes and an angular face, worn with experience. A chill ran up her arms. This woman was not Mama. It was a silly thought, but it ran deeper. This woman was not Mama. “Why do you doubt my ability to care for this child, Consul? I daresay I am wealthier than everyone in this room combined. It would be no financial burden to take in a ward.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace turned her body slightly. The Consul’s eyes flickered from Tatiana to her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Grace thought. She tried to convey it in her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But Consul Fairchild looked back at Tatiana and set her jaw. “Very well. If there are no objections?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to object!</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The room remained silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana did not speak to her as they left the Gard. Nor as they entered the Blackthorn Manor. Only until Grace had followed her into the sitting room did Tatiana whirl around to face her. “Listen to me, girl. From this point on, forget who you were before today. Your name is no longer Grace Cartwright, but Grace Blackthorn.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I . . .” Grace spoke for the first time in days. “But my parents—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana gave a ugly, screeching little laugh. “Your parents are dead, stupid child.” Grace stared in confusion. “They are not coming back for you. You will never see them again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These were words Grace understood. She had known it, known it since the train ride, but she had not known it in her heart. Now she did. Tears burned in her eyes. She gripped Mary Elizabeth tighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana had already continued speaking, though Grace hadn’t noticed. “. . . my son, Jesse, who is ill at the moment. You are not to disturb him, though I doubt he will want anything to do with you—what are you doing?” She stopped short. Faintly, Grace realized that Tatiana was already one foot out of the sitting room, and she was still at its entrance. Tears blurred her vision as Tatiana stalked toward her. “Well? Are you dumb? Follow me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grace’s feet felt impossibly heavy. When she tried to take a step, they remained rooted in the carpet, as firm as tree roots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana’s face contorted into an ugly mask. But when she spoke, her voice was soft. As kind as it could be without being genuinely kind. “Is this your doll?” Grace nodded silently, tears still dripping off her chin. “May I see her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doll slipped gently out of Grace’s hands and into Tatiana’s. The woman cradled Mary Elizabeth’s head in her palm. Her painted blue eyes stared at Grace. “What’s her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M—Mary Elizabeth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Elizabeth. What a wonderful name.” Tatiana stroked the doll’s soft hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, so quickly that Grace’s blurred vision hid the sight from her, Mary Elizabeth crashed down onto the hard floor. It was a piercing sound, the sound of porcelain shattering. Grace cried out, diving to the floor. Her fingers bled as the porcelain shards sliced into them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But try as she might, she could never piece Mary Elizabeth back together. Even her beautiful, frayed red ribbon had been lost to oblivion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing to squeeze in fright or for comfort. There never would be again. Grace’s bloodied hand flexed, but no healed Mary Elizabeth magically appeared. Her doll, her little doll since birth . . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace Herondale.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace starts as a figure emerges from the milk-white walls. She wears a long white gown, cinched at the waist with thick wire. Gray hair flows from her scalp in thick waves, cascading down to her waist. Grace stifles a shiver at the sight of her glowing orange eyes, like embers in her pale face. The Iron Sister inclines her head. “I am Sister Dolores. What brings you to the Adamant Citadel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish to see my mother. Tatiana Blackthorn. I understand she is an initiate here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her name is Sister Mary now.” Sister Dolores tilts her head. “What reason could you possibly have for wanting to see her? As I understand it, your mother’s position with us is intended as punishment. I can only imagine what crime she must have committed and my imagination does not provide any place for visitors to such a condemned woman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then perhaps your imagination is faulty,” snaps Grace. She feels strange and heavy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sister Dolores’s eyebrows raise. “Careful, girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I see my mother?” Her head feels light, as if she is hovering above her own body instead of in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sister Dolores is unsympathetic. “Have you no respect—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace!” Little ants down her spine, Grace thinks briefly. That is what Tatiana’s voice does to her. Mama appears just as suddenly as Sister Dolores had. She has spent more than a year with the Iron Sisters, but a year must be nothing compared to the rest of the Sisters. Tatiana’s eyes are still a dark, depthless green; her hair, still brown. Only the stiff white robe and the wire around her waist mark her as an Iron Sister. “What a surprise!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sister Mary.” Sister Dolores says sharply. “Why have you left your duties? Why were you released?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am on a break, Sister.” Tatiana smiles. Grace cringes at the sight of it. Mama has spent so long being inhuman that something as passionately human as smiling morphs into something monstrous when she attempts it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is highly unusual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I—” She stops short. Silence hangs in the air, breathless, as Mama’s green eyes meet hers. Tatiana has never had to wheedle and bat away suspicion like this. That has always been Grace’s task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was worried for Mama,” Grace jumps in. She isn’t sure if switching to a sweeter demeanor will dispel the fact that she had insulted the Sister, but she continues. “And I had no way of contacting her, not without coming here. I—” Grace coughs a little, the words sticking in her throat. “I missed her,” she tells Sister Dolores, eyes wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I you, daughter.” It takes a moment for Grace to realize that the sourness in her eyes is meant to be affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sister Dolores narrows her eyes at the pair of them. “Very well,” she decides. “But know that I will expect you back to your post in fifteen minutes, Sister Mary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” The Sister drifts back into the smoky walls, and Tatiana whirls on Grace, eyes blazing. “Did he contact you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mama, this is not the place—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana waves away her concern. “Please. All these mummies couldn’t hear us if we screamed. The walls are enchanted against outsiders. He contacted you, didn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—yes. But who is—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Tatiana laughs. “He is very clever. Or perhaps the Clave is very stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sending me here instead of the Silent City.” Tatiana looks around them, lip curling in scorn. “Right into the heart of the Shadowhunter world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mama,” Grace says faintly. “What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you see it, Grace?” Tatiana’s hands come down on her shoulders like manacles. “This is where Shadowhunter weapons are forged and sent out. But imagine what would happen,” a coy look creeps into her eyes. “If an outsider were to gain access to those precious weapons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sick feeling stacks in her stomach. “Mama, have you been . . . have you been tampering with the weapons?” Visions flash through her mind. Shadowhunters cornered in alleyways, demons rising up over them, shouting Angel names desperately at seraph blades that never activate. The skin under her marriage band throbs. James’s sword bouncing off demon skin. Cortana melting into a puddle. And a boy with glasses and shirt stains, throwing a knife and having it shatter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tatiana rolls her eyes, more repelled by Grace’s apparent stupidity than her disgust. “Must you insist on being so slow? Now, you have married the Herondale boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace nods mutely, her head still spinning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What have I done?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent.” Tatiana has never sounded prouder of her. “What about the rest of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rest of them?” Her voice sounds awfully young. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. The rest of that infernal circle. The Consul’s children. My brothers’ sinful heathens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Befriend them. Charm them. I want them to die alongside the Herondale boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace’s stomach lurches. “I thought . . . I thought only James had to—” She cannot even speak those words. A wife wishing death upon her husband is nothing short of a sin. Grace has said it so many times in the past, that she wishes James dead because she lives under Mama’s roof and Mama loves her and Mama hates James. Now she realizes that more than half of those beliefs are in question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James? It was never about him, not for us.” There is a rabid look in Tatiana’s eyes. “He is Belial’s. That was the bargain. He promised me the deaths of the remaining Lightwoods if I brought him James Herondale. And you, my dear girl, have already done that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The . . . the Lightwoods—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gideon’s daughter was a gift. A show of good favor.” Barbara Lightwood. James’s cousin. Christopher’s cousin. “But they will all die in due time. With me, here, and you, outside, luring them to their fates . . .” Tatiana’s fingers are burning hot, like embers. “My dearest, darling weapon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nous aurons pour nous l'éternité,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dans le bleu de toute l'immensité</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kit,” says James. “Are you all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each time he hears James’s voice, Christopher wants to race to Anna’s flat and hide. His sister would be irritated, but she would not pry. She never does, because Anna leads a very interesting life and Christopher leads a very uninteresting life. He can count on one hand the number of times that Anna has listened to his woes. He would need the hands of about a hundred people to count the number of times that he has listened to Anna’s woes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In contrast, James does not live nearly as interesting of a life as Anna. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” Christopher replies. He remembers Matthew describing his voice as “dreamy” once and tries hard to make his words sound dreamy and normal. Very normal. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just—you look pale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do,” confirms Thomas. Ever the nursemaid, he touches the back of his hand to Christopher’s forehead. “Are you sick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! I’m fine!” He swats Thomas’s hand away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such an outburst from our typically taciturn scientist,” muses Matthew from his windowsill perch. “You must be embroiled in a scandal to prompt such an outburst.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Matthew.” The panic must be evident on his face now, because the golden-haired Shadowhunter raises an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what is it? Did you steal from Aunt Cecily and now she’s after you? Did you blow up one of the Institute’s priceless artifacts? Did you impregnate some poor girl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Shouts Christopher. By the Angel. Could one get pregnant just by kissing? Was that possible? No, it couldn’t be. As far as he knew, women could only become pregnant through a series of encounters that he and Grace had definitely not partaken in. But what if that wasn’t the only way one could become pregnant? What if there was another way, through purely kissing? Panic shoots through him, and he stands up. “You are all being ridiculous.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re worried about you,” says James soothingly, shooting an annoyed look at his </span>
  <em>
    <span>parabatai.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Matthew merely shrugs and returns to the window. “You’ve been detached lately, Kit. You have barely been in the lab the past two weeks, and you haven’t visited the Institute at all. I feel as though I’ve not seen you in ages.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher flails—physically, with his hands, and mentally—as he struggles to figure out what to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>James, I kissed your wife.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “No!” He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until he meets James’s confused eyes. “I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blizzard of knocking saves him. All eyes turn towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s been an attack.” Lucie’s voice is muffled on the other side of the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly, James flings the door open to admit his sister. Thomas and Matthew reach for the pile of weapons in the corner, faces set gravely. Christopher quickly straps on gear, grateful for the distraction. He can kill demons. He can’t face James. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where? How did you find out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucie’s eyes drift to the corner of the room. Christopher follows her gaze, but there’s nothing there. “I . . . heard it from Jessamine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jessamine?” Panic lights up Thomas’s eyes. “The attack? It was at the Institute?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no!” Lucie hurries to correct herself. “Jessamine says she overheard Mam and Dad talking about it, and then I heard from Anna. There was a group of Ravener demons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ravener demons?” James asks, alarmed. “But they’re usually summoned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which means someone else is likely behind this attack,” says Matthew. The cheer has been wiped from his face, replaced by stern determination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anna and Daisy,” James turns to his sister. “Are they already there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy. Cordelia. That is another factor that Christopher does not understand. They had all known it was a sham marriage (James had said it himself, multiple times, in cool disinterest), but that did not explain the way James’s gaze lingered on Cordelia, or the way Matthew had grown distant from his </span>
  <em>
    <span>parabatai.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The latter observation is more concerning. They are a tightly knit group, The Merry Thieves. They keep secrets from each other, but the truth always outs. Eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher touches his lips without thinking.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucie nods, her face troubled. “Alastair, too. But they told me that they would wait until we arrived.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” James says shortly, and busies himself with putting on gear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, boys,” Matthew says. A grin creeps across his face, and for a moment Christopher sees the old Matthew, the one who would drink with reckless abandon and show up to social gatherings teetering this way and that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And ladies,” supplies Lucie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And ladies,” Matthew amends. “What say you to the idea of a cheery romp through London, spending time with family and friends and of course, our dearest demonic archrivals?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dans le ciel, plus de problėmes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mon amour crois-tu qu’on s’aime?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace’s breath comes in short bursts, her chest so tight with pain that it feels as though she may never breathe regularly again. She had already felt ill when she had returned from the Adamant Citadel, nearly two weeks ago. Even the usually absent-minded James had noticed, insisting that she remain at the townhouse until she recovered. Grace had acquiesced, too exhausted and too terrified to object. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now . . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had known something was wrong when James didn’t come home. Granted, it was early in the day for him to return—the sun had not yet set—but she had awoken that morning with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Something was about to go horribly wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Grace had heard about the demon attack. And she had remembered the crazed look in Tatiana’s eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>With me, here, and you, outside, luring them to their fates . . .</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They had underestimated how many demons were involved. And now James, Cordelia, Alastair,  Anna, and Christopher were badly injured. When Tessa had come to Grace’s door, her face had been kind. But despite her mother-in-law’s best efforts, Grace had seen the fear in Mrs. Herondale’s eyes, the one fear that silenced every parent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My son, my niece, and my nephew are in the infirmary!” Grace and Tessa hear Will shout as they enter the Institute. The anguish and anger in Will’s voice makes Grace shrink back. If only he knows what she has done, the insidious part she has played in James’s life for the past four years. “Don’t you dare—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will, now is not the time to be cavorting with Downworlders.” Inquisitor Bridgestock’s voice crescendos as she and Mrs. Herondale draw nearer to the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will says something in Welsh and though she does not quite know what it means, the sheer harshness of the word makes it very clear what her father-in-law thinks of the Inquisitor. “Cavorting? Inquisitor, you seem to have conveniently forgotten your elite education—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assure you, Will, I have not forgotten anything—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you will remember that Ravener demons are frequently </span>
  <em>
    <span>summoned,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will seethes. “By a warlock or some other nefarious source. Magnus Bane is in London. He is well-connected, with a sympathy for Shadowhunters. He is our best resource for finding the attacker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know who the attackers were. They were Ravener demons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you deaf, Inquisitor? Do you have a filter in your ear that keeps you from hearing the truth?” Will bellows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tessa chooses this precise moment for her and Grace to enter. Will and Bridgestock are on opposite sides of the room, both nearly purple in the face. Will has lost his jacket somewhere, and his waistcoat is rumpled. “Hello, Inquisitor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bridgestock inclines his head respectfully. “Mrs. Herondale.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tess,” Will murmurs, and moves towards his wife. Grace—and Bridgestock—watch uncomfortably as Will grasps Tessa’s hands in his and squeezes them. Grace’s wedding band feels cold on her finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will notices her a moment later. Almost as an afterthought. “Grace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only she truly loved James. She would know what to say. Instead, she settles for a strained, “Mr. Herondale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you?” Will’s blue eyes are intense, sharpened with rage and concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I . . . may I see James?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Tessa says. “He’s in the infirmary.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Grace dips her head and rushes out of the library as fast as she can without drawing attention. Before the door closes behind her, she hears Will and Bridgestock’s argument starting up again, their loud voices clanging like cymbals in her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The path to the infirmary is long, and Grace is afraid to be left alone with her thoughts. She picks up her pace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is empty save for the injured. Dim, blue-tinged light shines from the large windows as the sun sets. Grace picks up the lamp near the door and tiptoes further into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees Cordelia’s face first. Her dark red hair gleams in the low light of the lamp, as does her inhumanly pale tan skin. Grace’s mouth goes dry. She almost wants to lash out at the girl, pick her up by the shoulders and shake her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why did you let me do it? Why did you let me take him?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But she knows the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace steps away from Cordelia’s bedside, her skin afire with shame. Lifting her lamp high, she sees James’s face at the very back of the room. Trying not to let the lamp swing too far away from her, she hurries to the back of the room and seats herself at her husband’s bedside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing she sees is James’s ring finger, the wedding band catching the last sliver of sunlight. It is brighter than anything else in the room. Grace remembers slipping it onto his finger, looking up shyly at him underneath her veil. He’d grinned at her, his eyes soft and adoring. She remembers standing at the altar, her gut twisting this way and that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t do this.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But she had done it, and this is where it has led her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace does not have to follow the long white tendons up James’s hand to know what lies beyond. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loyaulté me lie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as permanently carved as the day she gave it to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That same animal instinct overtakes her. This time, Grace does not hold back. There is a scalpel on James’s bedside table, glittering silver. She snatches it up, the weight of it hardly anything. Her breath comes shallowly as she approaches him. Grace takes his hand in hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scalpel scrapes at the bracelet, little silver chips flaking off. In her frenzy, Grace doesn’t realize that there are tears streaking down her face until one lands on the blankets. Panic rises like an ocean tide within her, and the scalpel drops from her hand onto the floor. Grace reaches forward and tries to pry the bracelet off of James’s wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James stirs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace freezes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he merely scrunches his nose slightly and falls deeper into slumber. Grace breathes a little easier and tries to ease the cuff off his wrist. It scrapes slightly against his skin, as if not wanting to let go. “Please,” Grace breathes slightly. Her heart beats an inhuman rhythm in her chest. Did her mother enchant the bracelet with some sort of extra protection? Did the demons—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cuff slips into her hands. It is still warm from his skin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loyaulté me lie.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The etchings are rough against her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grace?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything inside her goes blank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher is sitting up in his bed on the other side of the room, across from James. And he is looking at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher.” His name rushes out of her before she can stop herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” He must have left his glasses somewhere, she thinks, because he is not wearing them and without them the vibrant violet of his eyes is even more piercing. Something pricks her heart briefly, because she has spent enough time to know that Christopher is nearly blind without his glasses. Because he must be blind right now, and yet he still recognizes her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I—” If it were anyone else, Grace would lower her head, gesture towards James, and spin a story about how she feared for her husband. But all rational thought has flown out of her head, replaced by memories of Christopher. Watching his rough hands swirl acid around in a Erlenmeyer flask. Silently handing him crucible tongs. Mopping up water off of the lab bench. Feeling the patch of wetness at her back, the soaked fabric of her dress— “I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher blinks slowly, a layer of fog settling over his violet eyes. Grace lets out a pained breath of relief and sorrow. Whatever medicine had been administered to him is quickly tearing him away from lucidity. With luck, this episode will be just a blurry memory when he truly wakes. “Grace,” he says, and there is a bit of steel in his voice as he attempts to hold on. “What do you have to be sorry for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But all Grace does is press her lips together, wrap her fingers around James’s bracelet, and flee the infirmary. The doors close behind her, clicking softly. Her back thuds against the wood. Hot tears collect in her eyes, burning her from the inside. Grace breathes deeply, again and again, as if she cannot feel the bottom of her lungs and must make sure that it still exists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grace Blackthorn is not her mother’s daughter for nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She straightens herself up, brushes her tears off like dust particles, and returns to the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will, Tessa, and the Inquisitor are still in a three-way shouting match. But Grace’s voice, small and hard, rises above the cacophony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have crimes to confess.”</span>
</p>
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